The Rising of the Session

To a' men living be it kend,
The SESSION now is at an end:
Writers, your finger-nebbs unbend,
And quatt the pen,
Till Time wi' lyart pow shall send
Blythe June again.

Tir'd o' the law, and a' its phrases,
The wylie writers , rich as Croesus ,
Hurl frae the town in hackney chaises,
For country cheer:
The powny that in spring-time grazes,
Thrives a' the year.

Ye lawyers, bid fareweel to lies,
Fareweel to din, fareweel to fees,
The canny hours o' rest may please
Instead o' siller:
Hain'd multer hads the mill at ease,
And finds the miller .

Blyth they may be wha wanton play
In fortune 's bonny blinkin ray,
Fu' weel can they ding dool away
Wi' comrades couthy,
And never dree a hungert day,
Or e'ening drouthy.

Ohon the day for him that 's laid,
In dowie poortith's caldrife shade,
Ablins owr honest for his trade,
He racks his wits,
How he may get his buick weel clad,
And fill his guts.

The farmers sons, as yap as sparrows,
Are glad, I trow, to flee the barras,
And whistle to the plough and harrows
At barley seed:
What writer wadna gang as far as
He cou'd for bread.

After their yokin, I wat weel
They'll stoo the kebbuck to the keel;
Eith can the plough-stilts gar a chiel
Be unco vogie,
Clean to lick aff his crowdy-meal,
And scart his cogie .

Now mony a fallow's dung adrift
To a' the blasts beneath the lift,
And tho' their stamack's aft in tift
In vacance time,
Yet seenil do they ken the rift
O' stappit weym.

Now gin a Notar shou'd be wanted,
You'll find the pillars gayly planted;
For little thing protests are granted
Upo' a bill,
And weightiest matters covenanted
For haf a gill.

Nae body takes a morning dribb
O' Holland gin frae Robin Gibb ;
And tho' a dram to Rob 's mair sib
Than is his wife,
He maun take time to daut his Rib
Till siller's rife.

This vacance is a heavy doom
On Indian Peter's coffee-room,
For a' his china pigs are toom;
Nor do we see
In wine the sucker biskets soom
As light's a flee.

But stop, my Muse, nor make a main,
Pate disna fend on that alane;
He can fell twa dogs wi ae bane,
While ither fock
Maun rest themselves content wi' ane,
Nor farer trock.

Ye changehouse keepers never grumble
Tho' you a while your bickers whumble,
Be unco patientfu' and humble,
Nor make a din,
Tho' gude joot binna kend to rumble
Your weym within.

You needna grudge to draw your breath
For little mair than haf a reath,
Than, gin we a' be spar'd frae death,
We'll gladly prie
Fresh noggans o' your reaming graith
Wi' blythsome glee.
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